Whiteout  Book 6
by Paige Caldwell-Hunt
Summary: Post-episode for "Syzygy" & "Pusher"


TITLE: Whiteout (Book Six)  
>AUTHOR: Paige Caldwell-Hunt RATING: T CATSKEYS: MSR, Post-Ep for "Syzygy" & "Pusher"  
>SUMMARY: "Scully, run! Run!"<br>SPOILERS: Seasons One to Three DISCLAIMER: This is a not-for-profit undertaking FEEDBACK: If you enjoyed it, let me know!  
>WEBSITES: .compaige

NOTES: This is going to be a series of stories. Each book will posted in its entirety. Books One to Five can be found at Gossamer.

Book Six

"Mulder, you don't have to do this. You're stronger than this."

"Your turn, Scully. Got to play by the rules. Pull the trigger, Mulder."

"Mulder, fight him. You can fight this."

"Come on. Pull the trigger, Mulder. She shot you, I read it in her files. Payback time... shoot the little spy!"

"I'm going to kill you, Modell."

"Yeah, pull the trigger, you get another crack at me."

"Scully, run! Scully..."

For once, I took Mulder's advice. I ran.

Not at first. It took a few days for the return of post-traumatic stress to exert it's own type of mind control. Although I had suggested we not give Modell another moment of our time, my psyche was working 24/7 to erase the image of finding myself once again on the wrong end of Mulder's gun. Only a quick pull of the fire alarm saved me from a deadly game of partner roulette.

What I didn't realize was that the sound which saved me became that which condemned me. The next morning, I woke to a four-alarm shrieking that rolled me off my bed and half way under it. My first reaction was to reach up to my nightstand where I shelved my gun. When my hand started shaking and my target revealed itself to be my alarm clock, I knew I was in trouble.

Instinct told me to call Mulder. It's a good thing I'm ruled by logic. While counting dust bunnies under my bed, I rationalized it probably wasn't the best idea to confide my relapse to the one person who had caused it. Besides, my partner and I were at a precarious stage in our relationship known as "the next step". That was, if my little feet could take it.

I knew they could reach the gas pedal, however.

Perhaps this is why I found myself stowing my weapon and packing my bags. I needed to run. I needed to run from a gun that made my hands shake. I needed to run from a partner who had put his own version of "the whammy" on me, where I had taken to wearing lipstick and mascara on late night stakeouts.

I had no planned destination. Panic run amok doesn't generally come equipped with a road map. I made it thirty miles out of D.C. before I realized my cell phone was ringing. I knew who it was. I had failed to call out sick. Or, abducted by aliens.

For a second, I was tempted to throw my cell phone out the window. Instead I shoved it in my purse and turned on the radio to drown out its frantic rings.

I pulled over at a rest stop to fill my gas tank and contemplate my options. I couldn't continue driving aimlessly. Not without a Starbucks latte.  
>I strolled inside the service plaza where I glanced at travel brochures while the barista steamed milk into froth. Lancaster County, Pennsylvania caught my eye. Hiding among the Amish appealed to me. I could eat Shoofly pie to my heart's content and eschew modern technology.<p>

I set out with renewed optimism. There was nothing like driving while caffeinated to get you where you were going. By lunchtime, I had crossed into Pennsylvania and was approaching the Susquehanna River. I found a beautiful old inn with a screened porch that ran the length of the building. I parked my car and got out to appreciate the field stone facade before climbing the steps to the entrance.

Inside, the hostess led me to a table with a view of the river. Mesmerized by how the sun sparkled on the water, I didn't hear the server's approach until he cleared his throat and said, "Ma'am, I believe your cell phone is ringing."

I looked up and saw Mulder staring over the barrel of his gun, his eyes pleading for me to run. Gasping, I shoved my chair back from the table.

"Are you alright?"

Blinking, my vision snapped back into place. The server immediately apologized. "I'm sorry to have startled you," he said.

"It wasn't you, trust me," I murmured, picking up a menu. "I just need a couple of minutes."

Apparently, I needed more than a couple of minutes. I needed a vodka martini or a straightjacket. The flashback had been so vivid, so real that I was beginning to question my ability to function, much less drive. When the server returned to take my order, I asked for a Caesar salad with a side order of directions to the nearest hotel.

I was in luck. The inn, itself, had available rooms. After dissecting my lunch, I checked myself in to my makeshift rehab. facility. At least being crazy coincided with good taste. My room was lovely, with a four-poster bed and a fireplace. I set down my suitcase and sighed. Here it would be easy to shut everything out and relax. I would lie down and take deep, cleansing breaths. I would even try to channel the memory of my sister, Melissa, and her New Age meditation techniques. Of course, without an eye of Newt and toe of frog, I probably wouldn't be successful.

I couldn't have been more wrong. The next thing I remembered was waking up that night with my business suit still on and my stomach grumbling. I took this as a positive sign. Sometimes, the step towards healing involved embracing the mind, the soul and the spirit. For me, it involved a hot meal delivered by room service. After placing my order, I carefully unplugged the phone and went into the bathroom to admire the fluffy bath towels and splash water on my face.

A loud banging on the door announced the arrival of my dinner. I opened the door not to a tray of delicious food but the unsavory frown of my partner. Startled, I stumbled backwards and hit the back of my head on the bedpost.

"I see that you're alright" he observed dryly.

"Clumsy, but alright." I rubbed the back of my head. "How did you find me?"

Mulder closed the door behind him and scanned my room. "Where's your cell phone, Scully?"

"You traced my cell phone?"

"I traced your credit card," Mulder responded, opening my suitcase as if armed with a search warrant. "Tank of gas on the highway, lunch and then a room at this inn. Pretty simple detective work."

"You missed the latte at Starbucks."

"Double shot espresso, low fat milk," he informed me. "The barista told me you paid cash."

By the way he patted down my suitcase, I could tell this was not a social call.

"So, what do I owe the honor of this invasion of my privacy?" I asked, watching him pick up my purse and dump the contents onto the bed.

"Ask your cell phone."

"It ran off in search of its charger."

Mulder ignored my attempt at humor and pulled out his own cell phone. I knew what he was doing. What I didn't understand is why I so badly wanted to stop him.

A ring could be heard from the closet. Even muted, the sound caused my heart to beat faster and fill me with fear. He found my cell phone and held it up for my attention. His eyes met mine, pleading with me to look... to acknowledge...

To run...

I flung open the door and sprinted into the hall. Behind me was my partner and down the hall was a fire alarm. Only a quick pull would save us from this deadly game of partner roulette.

Of course, longer legs could outrun high heels. Mulder caught me with my arm outstretched and my fingers just inches away from the fire alarm. Gripping me by the shoulders, he forced me to face him.

"When did the flashbacks start, Scully?"

"Haven't we already done this before?"

"When did they start?" he persisted.

"I don't know," I answered. I broke free from his grasp and threw my arms out in exasperation. "Today, yesterday... does it really matter? I mean, I thought if I could just get away from the source then maybe they would stop."

"What's the source?"

"I'm not going to continue this interrogation in a hallway," I asserted.

Mulder gestured to my room. "After you."

Inside, I sat down on a chair by the window. Mulder took off his coat and tossed it on the bed. "By the way," he advised. "I cancelled your room service."

I snorted at his tactic. "You're going to starve answers out of me?"

He loosened his tie and pulled up another chair directly opposite me. "It's my way of telling you that I can help you if you'll stop all of this bullshit."

I wondered if I should give him a break or hold out for a piece of pie.

"What's the source, Scully?" he repeated.

"You were there," I replied. "Why don't you tell me?"

Mulder folded his arms and waited.

I turned my head and gazed out the window. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, I said in a monotone voice, "You were about to pull the trigger."

"It wasn't me, Scully." Mulder said, "It was Modell."

"I know that," I snapped, jerking back around to stare at him. "He got inside your head... just as you're trying to get inside of mine."  
>Mulder didn't acknowledge my defensiveness. He studied me closely, immediately noticing what had caught my attention.<p>

"You keep looking at my gun, Scully."

"Probably because I'm generally on the wrong end of it."

"Except the gun I pointed at you wasn't mine, was it?"

"It didn't seem to make much difference at the time."

Mulder drew his gun out of his holster and offered it to me. "Here, take it."

"No, I don't want it."

"I trust you with it." He took the safety off and carefully placed his gun on my knees as he was placing his life in my hands.

"This isn't about trust."

"It absolutely is about trust," he asserted. "Now, what happened next?"

"Is this really necessary?" I lashed out. "You roll the dice but I'm the one who collects a new traumatic experience each time we pass go."

"What happened, Scully""

"This is ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous," Mulder informed me. "It's a relapse. Either we deal with it here and now, or I'm taking you back to D.C. where you can deal with Skinner."

"I see you're back to rolling dice," I snickered.  
>When he started to get up, I held up a restraining hand. "Fine, you win. I tried to convince you to fight, that you were stronger than Modell."<p>

"But, I wasn't."

"No, you weren't." My words turned bitter, which made me ashamed. "You pointed the gun at me and told me to run."

"What happened next?"

"I pulled the fire alarm."

"Okay," Mulder said, leaning back in his chair and exhaling slowly. "Tell me what happened this morning."

"I woke up and..." I stopped, remembering how the shrieking of my alarm clock had startled me from my sleep.

"And then your cell phone," he added.

"And then my cell phone," I agreed.

"To your mind the clock and cell phone sounded like a fire alarm," Mulder explained. "The sound triggered you to replay those moments in Modell's room over and over."

I picked up his weapon. This time my hand did not shake. "I thought the trigger was a gun."

"Not this time."

"Then why did you give it to me?"

"Control was taken from you," he explained. "I was giving it back."

I weighed his answer along with his gun. Both were coming up short. "You said earlier that it's all about trust. What about your trust in me, Mulder?"

"You know I trust you."

"Do you?" I released the magazine of his gun and held it up for inspection. "There are no bullets in this gun."

"A symbolic act doesn't require ammunition," he deflected.

I clicked the magazine back into place and handed his gun back to him. "Acts of trust do. Without trust, I don't see how we can continue being partners."

"What?"

I got up from my chair and straightened my wrinkled skirt. "I think you should leave."

Mulder shoved his gun back into the holster and stood up, as well. "We have been through a lot these past two years, Scully. It's normal for partners to develop trust issues."

"We are not normal partners," I said. "Let's face it, we lack a certain connection, a mutual understanding... I don't know what you would call it."

"Sympatico?" he interrupted. "Like you suggested about Detective White and I? Is that what this is all about?"

"Of course not," I lied, frowning at the mention of her name. "Trust is essential between partners. I don't know how we lost it. Maybe we never truly had it. But, I can't continue like this. I won't."

"What are trying to tell me?" His tone suggested anger, which oddly empowered me.

I walked over to the door and opened it. "I'm putting in for a transfer."

He picked up his coat and walked over to the door. "It's not comfortable having someone inside your head. Is it?"

"Oh, Mulder," I remonstrated. "You haven't profiled everything inside my head."

"Haven't I?" Mulder leaned over so his face was inches from mine. For a minute, I thought he was going to kiss me. But, he didn't. He waited for my startled intake of breath. His voice made my lips quiver. "I'm not sure if you're jealous or just plain scared. Maybe it's a little bit of both. But, this relapse over Modell doesn't begin to compare with what's been lurking in your subconscious since your abduction. Something that you're starting to remember. Something you're afraid to admit..."

I felt my throat tighten. "Just please go," I said.

As I watched him leave, I knew there would be no transfer request. Just as I knew that I'd pack my bag, tidy up the contents of my purse and join him downstairs in the parking lot. He was leaning against my car, looking up at the moonlit night. "Want me to drive?" he asked.

"What about your car?"

"It's a rental. The agency will pick it up in the morning."

As Mulder helped me load my bag, I confessed the truth about what had traumatized me so deeply.

"It had nothing to do with my kidnapping, Mulder. It was when Modell forced you to put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. I thought I had lost you for good."

He reached down to take my hand. "I say we don't let him take up another minute of our time."


End file.
